Counting to i
by BlindDestiny
Summary: AU- In Yokohama, Minimum Holders have two options: with Facultas or with The Family. In-between is short-lived, and the ground is always shifting. Other places don't have such generous options, so consider yourself lucky and just grin and bear it.
1. Perihelion

**Counting to i**

 **01 – Perihelion**

It was just a video.

Nothing but a couple of high school kids filming a video of themselves doing something stupid and reckless. Something to post on the Internet for a laugh. No big deal. But of course, it _was_ reckless. So when one kid fell into a busy street with a delivery van bearing down on him, it became obvious that the silly video wasn't worth it.

Until the impossible happened.

The kid was moments away from becoming a news story—a new, oily stain on the worn and patchy asphalt of Yokohama—and then he wasn't. A blink, and he's gone. Moved. Safe on the sidewalk. Neither he nor his friends could believe it.

A man in blue tucked his hands into his pockets as he walked down the same sidewalk. The group of kids didn't notice him.

Of course he grabbed the kid and pulled him out of harm's way. He was in the area. It really wasn't a big deal. He didn't do it for any other reason except he was there and he could act. He walked away from the event as if nothing had happened at all.

But then those kids examined their video of the impossible. Second by second and frame by frame. He was too fast to be caught by the camera shutter, but the before and after showed something peculiar. A man in blue appeared at the edge of the frame, and in the next the kid reappeared on the other side of the street with the man in blue walking away.

The kids cursed the grainy quality of their smartphone camera. They had no face to put to the man.

And then it ended up on the Internet. All of the reposts and hits and buzzing was enough to attract the attention of the Minimum Agency. Of course _they_ could figure out who to blame for the "public display." They wanted him to come in and shoot another video as if it was all TV magic. It seemed like a lot of trouble, so he didn't bother. They tried to discredit the original anyway, without his help. It didn't quite work.

The video went through countless message boards and public forums and all rings of the social media circus. It was set to music and remixed with explosions for added flair. It was badly subtitled in a handful of languages and showed up on international conspiracy blogs. The impossible man in blue. Yokohama's resident superhero.

And then the Next Big Thing happened and everyone forgot about him. That suited him just fine. After all, it was just a video.

But the reach of that video has landed him here, causing him trouble even a year later. It's thanks to that video that he's being asked to take a case by this well-tailored woman speaking broken Japanese. He tried placing her accent when she first walked into Café Nowhere, asking for the Hamatora Detective Agency with a curiously strong _r_. He decided that English was her first, or best, language right before she admitted to living in the US for several years.

Nice can't help but wonder if she came all the way to Japan to hire Hamatora because of some silly video she saw on the Internet, so he decides to hear her out.

And as she reaches the end of her pitch, Nice finds his fingers idly drumming on the tabletop. The little paper sign reading 'Hamatora Detective Agency' has been shoved into the corner and forgotten amongst the mess of documents and information brought in by this woman—what was her name again? It was normal, yet not. Simple made strange…

Chihara Kyokkō. That's it. It seems she's Japanese after all.

She's also a stickler for details, if the papers covering the table are any indication.

But Nice is only halfway listening by the end. He'd cemented his position not long after she'd started, talking about her missing fiancé and Minimum Holders and the apparent devastation burning through the American underworld. All these things he doesn't know and doesn't _need_ to know. She throws so much information at him at once. It's aggravating. Almost as if she's _unable_ to discern what information is necessary and what isn't.

Nice filters through it on the fly. It's even more aggravating when he realizes how simple her case actually is, but she's been talking for about ten minutes now. As soon as there's a pause he holds up a hand, his words pinning her down like carefully aimed darts: "So, what you're saying is: You need power."

She swallows back what she was about to say. Nice could laugh at the exposed look that comes over her face. "What do you mean?"

"Dr. Muramasa, your fiancé, you worked together, right? You were both in the police force, and then you say he fell into the wrong crowd—"

She bristles. "He was _taken_ by a powerful criminal organization made up of Minimum Holders."

"—and brought back to his native Japan. Since you worked with the police, you already know a lot about this organization. Just look at all of this paperwork you've brought with you." He motions to the stacks of paper and several files strewn across the table. "It shouldn't be much trouble for you to track down this huge and powerful group, right? So why do you need Hamatora? You've already said it: The organization is made up of _Minimum Holders_. Fighting fire with fire, huh?"

She smiles in some defeated way. "I suppose you have already figured out that I have no Minimum."

"Not necessarily. You could have a non-combative-type," he shrugs. "But since you just admitted it, I'll say that you don't."

"In any case, I am not asking for a secret weapon, I am asking for _help_." He raises a brow. "I believe my fiancé was taken because of the research he was doing on Minimum Holders. He was looking at how they worked, and new ways to fight against their abilities as the chaos in America only seems to get worse. The only way for me to help him was to follow the group to their base of operations—to Japan. But this is also their territory, and I am already at a disadvantage since I do not have a Minimum." She wrings her hands in her lap, fiddling with the diamond ring on her finger. "I would say that I only need your help extracting my fiancé, but they are probably already aware of my presence in this country and may consider me a nuisance. I have to find him and get him out as soon as possible. I need the help of Hamatora to do it. I am unable to go against them on my own."

Nice watches her a moment. He feels the pressure in her voice, despite her lumbering pronunciations. He gives a patient breath. "Can't you get your friends in the police to help? What about the American government? Kidnapping _is_ illegal there, right?"

"Of course it is," she sighs, "but there's a loophole in America's extradition treaty with Japan. Because the parties involved are Japanese citizens, Japan can claim jurisdiction over the incident despite the fact that the crime was committed in the United States." She speaks the words as if she's rehearsed them a thousand times.

Nice hums a laugh. "That's awfully convenient."

"But true. Would you like me to bring up the legal documents?" She goes for one of the stacks of paper and he holds up his hands.

"No, no. I believe you. It just seems bothersome."

"Which is why I am prepared to pay for all of the trouble I cause you."

"Oh? I haven't even named my price yet."

"This case is worth a lot to me, so I will pay you 5 million yen for your assistance."

Nice suddenly leans forward in his chair. "Are you serious?"

"Is it not enough?"

"No, it's just—that's… an unbelievable amount."

"Then it should be enough to prove that I am serious." He meets her stare and believes it—she is serious. "I came here to gain the help of Hamatora, and that is what I intend to do. You now have all of the information." Her eyes turn expectant as she watches him from across the table.

But his expression remains flat. He still isn't convinced. There's something…

"So, what do you say?" she asks, uncrossing and crossing her legs. Fidgeting in uncertainty.

Nice chews on his lip, rolling the information around in his head one last time. He has to decide.

The moment he starts to answer is the moment the windows of Café Nowhere are blown apart.

X

A fist breezes past his ear. Quick step to the right. Twist his shoulder back. Slingshot the left fist forward—step into it. The punch is blocked by arms and elbows.

A knee comes up for his abdomen and he steps back. No contact. Fists held high. He takes another swing, this time with his right arm. This time he aims lower. The other man weaves around his punch and closes the distance between them.

Murasaki's arm blocks the incoming fist just before it crashes into his face.

He pulls his knee up into his opponent's stomach. The man coughs and steps backwards and Murasaki doesn't let up. He's upon him with fists and elbows. Only a few hits land. The rest are blocked or deflected.

If he'd activated his Minimum, the man's bones would be shattered. But it wouldn't be enough for the man to back down. Murasaki waits for the opening—for when using his Minimum would put an end to it. In a way that doesn't cause unnecessary suffering.

A wild kick crashes into his thigh. Murasaki doesn't flinch.

His opponent is a man with short dark hair and a splash of bruises across his left side. Murasaki has heard of him before. Nakamura Jun. A stray Minimum Holder.

And if Murasaki is remembering correctly, Nakamura's Minimum involves the hardening of his body until it's like stone. Murasaki takes another step back to create distance. To observe. To assess. To lure.

Nakamura brings his fists together before his chest, knuckles locked tightly together, making a circuit with his arms.

That's it. The trigger.

He lowers his stance and Murasaki braces for the impact. Nakamura rams a shoulder through Murasaki's arms and right into his bare chest and all the air is forced from his lungs.

It's true about Nakamura's Minimum. It's like being hit by a truck. If it wasn't for Murasaki's own Minimum, his ribs would surely be crushed. But as it is, Murasaki is pushed back with his shoes skidding across the concrete floor.

Nakamura swings his elbow towards Murasaki's face but hits nothing but air. Murasaki takes the chance to bury a strengthened fist in Nakamura's abdomen—aiming for his collection of bruises. And even through his Minimum, Nakamura falters. Murasaki's other hand grabs onto his face and throws him into the ground. A crater the size of his head is left behind on the floor.

But his Minimum means that he can still get up and fight. He deactivates it long enough to charge Murasaki from beneath, slamming into him and wrapping his arms around his waist. Murasaki's hands find Nakamura's belt as the impact lifts his feet from the ground.

Nakamura presses his knuckles together behind Murasaki's back and his Minimum reactivates. His body becomes like stone once again.

Murasaki loses his footing and they both go down.

Then they're rolling and rolling, each throwing the other over with the strength of their momentum. Tumbling. Flipping. Again and again and Murasaki feels the warm concrete beneath his back and lets go and presses his arms into the ground as he lifts one hip high—throwing Nakamura off balance. He swings a leg out to knock Nakamura's feet out from beneath him before he can regain his grip. His other leg arcs up as Murasaki twists his body free from Nakamura's stone grip and pins him down with a knee that pops a few of his softened ribs. His hands grab firmly onto his opponent's arms and he squeezes, the strength of his Minimum crushing Nakamura's bones like twigs beneath his fingers.

His screams are lost amongst the yelling of the spectators surrounding them.

Once the pain has drained his opponent's consciousness away, Murasaki stands. His face reveals nothing. The audience parts to let him pass through to the rear of the building. Several people rush forward to tend to Nakamura. To make sure he doesn't die.

A washroom has been installed at the back of the room, and Murasaki closes the door on all the noises of the crowded basement. He splashes his face with cold water from the sink and takes a clean towel across his chest. An open duffel bag sits in the corner and he snatches it up, easing back into his dress shirt and jacket and a pair of angular, red-framed glasses.

He hangs the bag from his shoulder and reenters the room of noises. Shouts of congratulations and hearty pats on the shoulder smother him. One man in particular offers Murasaki his hand. Murasaki knows this man. He's obligated to return the handshake. He thanks the man for his praise and they part shortly after. The man's hand slips into Murasaki's open bag as he walks away, leaving an envelope behind. His payment for the fight. Murasaki pretends to not notice.

He climbs a set of stairs and emerges on the public floor of the establishment: a restaurant. Lunch service has just ended, and as such most of the tables are empty. There's only one person left in the dining room as the staff flits about preparing for the dinner rush. A man in a casually-worn, yet well-fitting suit sits alone, nursing a glass of ice water and thumbing at his smartphone. A man called Tanabe. His dark hair is slicked back with product and a bright, clean scar marks his right cheek from chin to ear.

As Murasaki enters the dining room, Tanabe looks up from his phone and a smile breaks across his face. "That was a match to remember. Congratulations."

"Thank you."

Tanabe pockets the phone as he stands from the table. "Ready for the real work then?"

Murasaki only nods.

"You can drop that bag behind the counter," Tanabe adds, noticing the duffel bag on Murasaki's shoulder. "We'll be back here later anyway."

"I'd rather take it," Murasaki says, zipping the bag shut.

Tanabe simply slips on a pair of sunglasses and heads for the exit. "Suit yourself." Murasaki follows close behind. They both give the hostess a respectful bow as they leave the restaurant.

"Come along then," Tanabe grins, "You're my enforcement."

Murasaki nods without enthusiasm, but walks alongside him. 'Enforcing' is a bit of strong word, he thinks, since he typically does nothing at all. It seems his presence alone is enough to coax the payment out of their clients. Even bartering. So he simply stands there and lets Tanabe do all of the talking. All of the real work.

It may seem like bullying, but truly, The Family is the only thing keeping the suits in Facultas from owning all of Yokohama—and all the Minimum Holders gathered there beneath the shelter of kindred spirits. This Protection Service is real, whether the people believe it or not.

A few hours later, Murasaki and Tanabe walk briskly from their final stop. A breath deflates Murasaki's chest.

"Good work today," Tanabe says.

Murasaki answers with an affirmative grunt.

"A chatterbox as usual, I see." Tanabe mutters, but then his eyes light up. "What do you say we get some coffee? There's a place up the block with a killer house blend. ... You _do_ like coffee, right?"

"I do."

"I thought so. I bet you drink it black."

"Preferably."

A prideful nod. "So what do you say? My treat. Especially after that match."

A moment passes. The strong scent of coffee suddenly wafts down the sidewalk, presumably from whatever shop Tanabe is talking about. Murasaki concedes. "Sure."

Tanabe's grin tightens the scar across his cheek. "Consider it a victory cup."

Murasaki could roll his eyes, but decides against it.

They're two doors down from the coffee shop—called Café Nowhere, by the looks of the sign—when the windows of the shop burst apart into shimmering confetti. Tanabe's steps falter. Murasaki merely blinks.

A man in a white hooded jacket stands in the street at the front of the café. His hand is held at arm's length, finger pointed towards the now shattered windows. Three more people fall into place beside him. They're all wearing similar hoods and similar smirks.

There's a long moment of nothing.

And then the crunching of glass underfoot. The door of the café slides open and a person steps out—a man in a bright yellow vest with bandages on his face and headphones dangling from his neck. He glances from the four hoods to the broken windows and pulls his arms behind his head. "You know, it's much easier to get in through the door."

The first man laughs and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "I like to make an entrance."

A shrug. "It just seems like a lot of trouble for a cup of coffee, is all."

One of the other hooded figures reveals a knife with the subtlety of an air raid. Even from his position so far away, Murasaki can see the sunlight reflecting off the blade. "Let's just get this over with," the figure mutters. "I'll take care of him while you guys grab her." And they all step quickly but clumsily towards the man in the vest.

The man takes his time placing the headphones over his ears. The figure with the knife closes in on him and he snaps his fingers.

And what happens next, Murasaki doesn't understand.

As soon as the man in the vest snaps his fingers, he's on other the other side of the street. Meanwhile the four people in hoods are bombarded with punches that definitely landed. All at once there's the sound of snapping fingers and skin hitting skin and the four figures collapse onto the pavement, completely outmatched in less than a second. Murasaki sees them jerk and fall in unison like a carefully coordinated dance.

The man in the vest pulls the headphones down and makes his way back towards the café. He absentmindedly shakes the punches from his right hand. The knuckles are already blooming with red.

And for Murasaki, in that moment, this man whose heart has never raced, who knows no such things as anxiousness or uncertainty—his hands are trembling.

A woman emerges from the building and speaks to the man in the vest. She says something about a "situation," and asks for his help, but Murasaki isn't really listening. He can't take his eyes off of the man in that brightly-coloured vest. The man that just levelled four opponents as quickly as Murasaki could blink an eye.

That man rakes a hand through messy brown hair. "Alright. We accept this case."

xx

 **Author's Notes—** More Hamatora from me… [Surprise.] and it's a multichap! [Gasp.] But don't expect to be let off so easily. As I accept that I'm stuck in Hamatora forever, I can also accept that this is going to be a long one. And a messy one. Oh man.

As the first half should make obvious, this fic is going to be very… global is the word, I guess. In a way. Minimum Holders abroad! All of my research… But the majority of that won't be until later. And no, the title isn't a typo. It's relevant… and it took AGES to put together and I kind of like it because I'm actually a huge nerd but whatever.

 **It's all downhill from here,**

 _ **-Destiny**_


	2. Spectral Lines

**02- Spectral Lines**

"That's strange," Art mutters to himself as he watches the surveillance footage for what is probably the fiftieth time.

Gasuke watches him carefully while leaning on the entryway to his office. "Are you watching it again?" He asks, fingers plucking a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his hand. He tucks it behind his ear for later.

Art doesn't even look up from the monitor. A passing ice truck obstructs the camera's view at the exact moment that Dr. Nijima Hōtarō collapses bleeding on the sidewalk. "This hit is strange. It's very clean. Not like the clans in this area at all." He leans back in his chair and gives a vocal sigh. "He's of Facultas, so they would be sure to make an example out of him. It would be a spectacle—send some kind of message. But this… It's so mechanical."

Gasuke shrugs. "I agree with you, but I'm not sure watching that tape over and over is going to help in this case." Art is still staring at the monitor. His face is tense. Dr. Nijima was dead before he even hit the pavement. Gasuke catches Art wincing, and he comes over and claps a friendly hand onto his partner's shoulder. "Go home and rest on it, yeah?"

It takes a moment for Art to close the surveillance file, but he does. "I suppose I can agree to that."

"Good, good." Gasuke nods and steps back towards the door. Art stays behind to straighten the things on his desk. Paperwork, casefiles, loose pens, and the occasional note that he'll pop onto the edge of his monitor for future reference. He's already gathered what he needs and tucked his chair beneath the desk when his phone rings from his pocket. There's only a second's hesitation. Art retrieves the device and Gasuke can tell from his face that it's that friend of his. The blunt one with the headphones.

"Hello?"

Gasuke can't hear what's coming from the other end.

Art glances towards some nondescript point in the room. "And is this a business situation or a personal situation?"

Gasuke has to stifle his sigh. He'd just gotten Art to agree to go home and rest.

"I see." Art brings a hand down his face, but he isn't frowning. "Okay. I'll be right there." His eyes turn apologetically to Gasuke as he ends the call.

Gasuke only smirks at him. "Jumping into another mess?"

"It appears so."

"Would you like some company?"

"It isn't necessary. I can handle it alone. Nice has done most of the work already, so this is basically formalities." He turns back to his desk and begins searching through one of the drawers. "Don't let me keep you."

"If you say so," Gasuke concedes, strolling out of Art's office with a wave. "I'll let Nice take care of you in my stead."

The confusion that spreads over Art's face only lasts for a moment.

X

" _Nice!_ " Master roars as he storms out of Café Nowhere with his apron still tied around his waist. His strong arms point accusingly at Nice. "There you go destroying my shop again! You're paying for every bit of this mess!"

Nice pockets his phone with a look of childish desperation. "Eh? But this clearly wasn't my fault!" He motions to the still unconscious people lying in the street. "It was them! You saw it!"

"But if it wasn't for _you_ —!" he stalls. "How many times have I told you? Go run your little detective agency somewhere else!"

"Café Nowhere is Hamatora's base of operations. I can't just move it."

"Yes, and just _who_ decided that?"

"Erm—"

"Wait, please." The client Nice had been talking to, Chihara-san, suddenly steps over to Master and bows. She speaks towards the pavement: "I am very sorry about what happened. Please consider it my fault. I will take care of all of the damages to your shop."

Master's tone completely changes. "No, no! I can't let you shoulder any of the—"

"But I insist on it. This would not have happened if I was not here." She straightens back up and presents him with a business card. He takes it with unsure fingers. "Please let me know the cost of repairs and I will take care of it."

Master can only agree. He can't deny that it's a better option than telling Nice to pay for repairs that he either can't afford or will never actually pay for.

She glances back to Nice with a sheepish sort of smile. "I came prepared for things like this. Unfortunately."

Nice nods. His expression is impossible to read. "I see."

She bows towards him as well. "Again, thank you so much for your help. I will contact you tomorrow with the advance payment. It seems I have overstayed my welcome here already."

He waves a hand dismissively. "Like Master was trying to say, I don't think any of this was your fault." Then he smirks. "Besides, he's used to it."

Master could crush the business card in his fist. "Only because of the company I keep!"

She covers her mouth as she laughs. After another moment she's said more thanks and farewells and has disappeared down the sidewalk. Master sees her vanish uncannily amongst the thin layers of passers-by and spectators.

Nice notices the two men in business suits turning and leaving the scene at the same time. One of them has a bag slung over his arm and periodically looks back over his shoulder. His red-framed glasses stick out amongst his face. Nice raises a brow as their eyes meet.

The two turn a corner before Nice can get a read on them. He shrugs it off.

Master studies the card in his hand. "Footing all of the repairs… not to mention the amount she offered you to take her case… It seems like she has plenty of money to burn. What did she say her background was again?"

Nice's hands find his pockets. "Apparently she was the head of a division back in America."

"So, police?"

"That's what her paperwork says," he speaks without enthusiasm. "When her fiancée went missing she left and sold most of her possessions."

Master watches him a moment. "You sound like you don't believe that story."

"I don't. What with all of that money and how readily she left the police force and everything." He shakes his head. "No, she probably got too involved in her fiancée's or some other case and had to take a severance package to avoid any criminal charges. Otherwise she'd a have a badge to show off, right?" Master nods like he's impressed. He stops himself before Nice can notice it. "Unfriendly terms mean it would've been _taken_ from her." Nice grins. He noticed. "But she _was_ a cop. That much is true."

Master pockets the business card anyway. Severance package or not, he wasn't going to refuse compensation for the damages.

Nice glances at his watch and looks expectantly down the street.

It's not ten seconds later when three vehicles come to a stop in front of the café—two police cars and an unmarked sedan. Uniformed officers step out of the police cruisers and immediately begin restraining the four hooded youths in the street. The task is made even more burdensome by the fact that the youths are still unconscious. Meanwhile, a young man in a slim suit appears from the sedan. He issues a few comments to the officers before stepping onto the sidewalk.

Nice raises a hand to greet his friend.

Art's smile is polite and measured as he walks over. "It's been a while."

Nice tilts his head. "Has it?"

"I would say so."

"It's been something, but I wouldn't say it's been so long to be 'a while,' though."

"Oh?"

"A 'while' implies some long, unignorable span of time, right? If you keep throwing that word around so lightly, you'll turn a week into a month."

Art searches for the proper words. In the end, he can only laugh. "Four arrests. Possible charges of assault and vandalism… And after all of this chaos you're playing around with semantics?"

"What can I say? I don't take the passage of time lightly."

"In that case, I'll retract. It hasn't been a while."

Nice grins. "Not even close."

Art gives another breathy laugh.

Master finds himself smiling at the two as well. He wonders if Nice is right, though, since it's been about three weeks since the last time Art darkened the door of Café Nowhere. As he recalls, Nice called Art out of the blue—much as he's done now—asking for information on some case he'd gotten involved in.

Looking back, most of their interactions begin in a similar way, but Art never seems to be bothered by it. In fact, Master would say he's rather pleased. Perhaps he's gotten so used to Nice's rudeness that it no longer fazes him.

Master has seen their cycle so many times, and it's always the same. After this case, Art will surely go about his usual business, a few weeks will pass, and then Nice will appear again. He'll be armed with another flimsy excuse and that tone that's never taking anything too seriously. And Art will welcome the intrusion, no matter how untimely.

It's like a natural routine. Nice will often duck into his life as if he's coming up for air.

Art smiles like he's grown accustomed to it. Master has to admire his fortitude.

But after Nice and Master relay their accounts of what just happened Art can only shake his head in disbelief. He gives Nice a pointed look. "What did I tell you about getting involved with these types of groups?"

Nice is grinning in that forward way of his. "Are you worried about me?"

"No, actually," he admits. "But we both know what they're capable of."

Nice's grin starts to collapse. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be cautious."

Art laughs. "What an empty promise."

"What about you? Are you still leading the unit that deals with 'these types of groups'?"

"You know I am."

"I see," is all he says before falling silent.

His face is blank. Art can't read it.

One of the uniformed officers steps up just as he opens his mouth to question it. "What's our next step, sir?"

Master watches Art disregard it and move on to discussing procedure with the officer.

Nice is staring off into the distance as though he's already tuned everything out.

Art's tone turns authoritative: "We'll hold them for now. You can take them in. I'll be finished here soon." He waves a hand over to where the four hooded youths are sitting waveringly on the curb. Their wrists have been bound behind their backs. Only two of them have regained partial coherency, while the other two are still completely out of it.

The officer salutes and begins following Art's instructions.

Master isn't surprised that the youths have yet to come to their senses, despite the fact that it's been over half an hour since Nice first called Art over. It was Nice that dealt with them, and he really isn't one for holding back. Or, at least, his idea of holding back doesn't match most others.

Master's eyes go back to the shattered windows of his shop and a sigh escapes his lungs. Just what kind of chaos has Nice invited in now?

The four hoods are still being herded and placed into the police cars when the door of the café slides open once again. A small girl in yellow bounces over to Master's side with a cattish curl in her lip. "What's the situation?"

"Everything's fine now, Koneko. Art came here himself to help sort it out."

"You make it sound like I went out of my way, but it's no problem at all," Art corrects.

Koneko adjusts the glasses on her face and grins up at him. "Art-san, while you're here you should come in and have some tea. On the house!" She throws out a thumbs-up. "Don't worry—I've already cleared all the glass from the dining room!"

Master huffs. "And what about the rest of the shop?"

"I was working on it!" she says with equal enthusiasm.

But Art shakes his head. "As tempting as that is, I'm afraid I can't. There are still several things that need my attention." He gives Koneko his best smile. "Thank you for the offer, though."

Nice laughs under his breath. "Don't work too hard, Inspector."

"This town gives no room to rest," he sighs. "I'll keep you informed about this incident as much as I can, since it pertains to your case as well."

"I appreciate that."

"It's doubtful that we'll get much information out of those four, but anything can happen."

"Do you really believe that?"

Art slumps a bit. "Not in the slightest."

Nice smirks at that, his eyes following the police cars as they drive away. "You have your work cut out for you."

"It's a familiar feeling," he breathes. "So if you'll excuse me, I have my own cases to work over as well."

"Yeah. I'll see you around."

They regard each other for another wordless moment, and Art turns to exchange pleasantries with Master and Koneko before retreating back to his car. As the vehicle joins the flow of traffic, the only signs that anything happened at all are the remains of broken glass on the sidewalk and the familiar absurdity of panes with no windows.

Koneko watches the car disappear with a frown. "Art-san looked… tired."

Master agrees. He noticed too.

Nice just turns and stalks back into the café. "He always looks that way."

xx

 **Author's Notes-** Well this ended up kind of awkward, but I'm going to blame that on Art because he's also kind of awkward. Yeah.

Time to painstakingly set everything up so it's even more fun to tear it all down…!

 **Like dominoes,**

 _ **-Destiny**_


	3. Fractal

**03- Fractal**

 _This is a mistake._

He knows it's a mistake as soon as his feet lead him in that direction. It's too suspicious. There's no way. Something is seriously wrong here.

But he walks over anyway. He goes with his anxious smile and shaking palms and jeans just a little too large. He can barely speak to her. Her soft brown stare smothers him. Tendrils of body heat reach through the air and latch onto his skin.

This is unusual. Any other morning, they'd pass each other on the sidewalk as he's heading out to his measly part-time job and she would never glance in his direction. He doubts that she ever noticed him. She just goes on her way into a local convenience store that she manages, keys in hand, starting her day.

But today her keyring broke. Today she has no way to get into her store. Today she finally brings her eyes up to see the walking shadow of a boy that she passes almost every day.

Today she asks him for help.

And with a gnawing in his gut, he stops and asks what's wrong. His words are broken by his stuttering tongue.

A deep breath.

Focus.

"I'm locked out. My keys are lost. I don't know what to do." Her voice is strained. She waves her hands in the air.

"Don't you have a spare?"

She smiles sheepishly at the pavement. "That's… been misplaced."

"Then how am I supposed to help?"

"I'm not sure, honestly," she laughs in spite of herself, "You just happened to be passing by, so…"

He sets his jaw. An idea is festering in his mind: There is _one_ way he can help. An impossible way. He doesn't like to think of it, but he doesn't like to think of abandoning her either. But it would only draw attention to him. He's only ever used it for himself before. But she's in a bind, and he can help. He has to choose.

He needs to hurry, or he'll miss his morning train.

"Well," he mumbles, "let me see what I can do." And he steps up to the locked door. It has a deadbolt keeping it shut. No problem. He can do it. But his hands hesitate. Seconds creep by.

He has to hurry.

After needlessly hitting the door with his fist, he splays one hand over the lock. The word "Open" comes from his mouth like a reflex.

And the lock clicks open. It's deafening against the following silence.

That anxious smile is still on his lips. "There you go."

She gapes at him. "That was like magic! How did you do it?"

"Uh, well, you know," he stammers. "S-sometimes you just have to… know where the pressure points are. I guess."

Her smile makes the twisting in his stomach even worse. It's that feeling coming back. _This is a mistake_.

Shinya barely registers the door opening before a blow to the back of the head knocks him out cold.

X

It takes great care and dexterity to reset broken bones in such circumstances. Having the proper supplies is always a concern, of course, as The Family doesn't venture very far into the medical field—for the most part. They prefer the usual shops and restaurants that see a constant flow of different people. A direct economic link with fewer certifications and regulations standing in the way. The most they ever do in terms of medical supplies is provide the basic essentials.

But luckily for Ratio, he always makes it a point to be prepared, and easily fishes a set of plaster bandages from his bag.

And luckily for Nakamura, he remains unconscious until most of the casting is already finished. Ratio moving and resetting his humeri would have caused him great discomfort on its own, not to mention all the prodding at his other injuries and bruises. But at least Ratio can do his work without fiddling with x-rays and imaging. His Minimum makes broken bones a simple fix.

After Ratio has incased Nakamura's upper arms in plaster and fibreglass, it takes several minutes for the casts to set. He glances at his watch. "You'll be free to go in half an hour or so," Ratio explains, "but remember that the cast won't be completely set for a few days."

Nakamura just nods from his spot on the table.

"You should also take it easy for a while. You have a few fractured ribs as well."

He scoffs. "I can't take it easy."

"It seems Murasaki-kun didn't hold back," Ratio murmurs, ignoring him. "Be sure to have an adequate supply of ibuprofen nearby for pain management. You should still be able to breathe deeply despite the damage to your ribcage. If you don't keep breathing properly, it can cause complications."

"Yeah, yeah," Nakamura grumbles. "I hear ya."

Ratio sighs and returns his supplies to his bag. "I'll add this to your tab, Nakamura-san."

Nakamura puts on the harshest smile. "You're cruel, Sensei."

Ratio leaves without a response. He climbs the stairs from the near-empty basement and into the crowded restaurant above. At this time of evening, it's the public floor that's flooded with noise. He has to carefully weave through the milling people to reach the bar and lounge area. His eyes search for the bartender as he makes his way over. All he needs is his payment. Just grab it and leave. That's all. He never did care much for crowds.

But before the bartender, he first catches sight of a man in a bright sports jacket and sunglasses leaning against the bar. Ratio outwardly groans. He's just about to leave when the man turns and sees him and a smirk breaks across his face. Ratio won't allow himself to retreat now. He steels himself and steps up to the bar. He stands next to the man in sunglasses, who regards him with amused interest. The man's fingers trace the rim of his glass. The drink is clear with a garnish of lime, and Ratio can tell from the way he's carefully sipping that it's alcoholic.

"If it isn't the Grim Reaper," Birthday laughs. His breath is laced with gin and tonic.

"If only that were true," Ratio mutters, at last making eye contact with the bartender and tapping two gloved fingers on the countertop. The bartender nods and ventures off amongst the people and glass bottles.

Birthday is nodding. "Yeah, you're right. Reapers are the real deal. They don't take death so lightly."

"And neither do I. I merely rely on what I see," Ratio narrows his eyes. "You would do well to remember that."

But Ratio's expression doesn't discourage him at all. "Ah, there's that hatred," he grins. "That glare of yours is what keeps me warm at night, Sensei."

"In that case: Shall I remove this eyepatch and give you a complimentary consultation?"

"From you? No, thanks. I already know the results."

"Just offering my services."

"'Services,' huh?" he scoffs. "A doctor is supposed to be an image of care and well-being, not a death bringer." He sips his drink, making a face as it slips down his throat. "But you're the opposite of hope. You see death and just give up."

"Because death cannot be fought against," he presses. "It's absolute. But if that's what you think of me, I can't say I'm insulted."

Birthday chuckles. "So you _want_ to be considered a Prophet of Death? How macabre is that?"

"And it is not _always_ death. As I've told you countless times before."

"Yeah, but you're still awfully convinced that I'm going to die soon—"

"Because you are."

"—even though you've been saying that for over a decade." Ratio doesn't say anything else. Birthday simply shrugs. "You know, whenever I hear you say that it kind of makes me feel better. Because I know how wrong you are. And if you're still so sure about it, well, it must still be wrong."

Ratio glares at the smug hunch in his shoulders. That annoying smirk skewers him. "You… are my only failure."

Birthday laughs at the crinkle in his nose. "Are you wishing death upon me, Dr. Prophet?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he spits. "I'm only wishing the images would line up."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"It isn't."

"Sounds like it to me."

"Would you like for me to kill you myself?"

"Now that would be a sight to see." Birthday shoots him another toothy grin, the overhead lights gleaming off his sunglasses. "You've been trying for years."

Ratio curls his lip, but he doesn't respond.

Another shrug rolls from Birthday's shoulders as he swallows the last of his drink.

At the same time, the bartender finally returns and sets a tiny glass of spiced rum before Ratio. It is perched atop a folded napkin. Ratio downs the glass without a word, cringing as the heat bites the back of his throat. He takes the napkin in his hand and it's weighted from the bank notes carefully tucked inside. He slips it into his pocket and offers the bartender his thanks.

Birthday says nothing as Ratio walks away, but just before he's out of earshot, Ratio hears him lightheartedly order another gin and tonic.

X

Murasaki and Tanabe return to the restaurant as a solemn caravan. They don't speak through the entire walk back from Café Nowhere.

Tanabe finds his companion's silence normal. Murasaki just assumes that Tanabe is moping that he never got his coffee.

Dinner service is in full-swing, so the two enter the restaurant virtually unnoticed. However, they still give a quick and courteous bow to the hostess on their way to the offices in the back of the establishment.

Tanabe leads the way to a meeting room with a table and several plush armchairs. He enters without knocking. The room is empty of people.

"We're done for the day. You can go now," he says as he sits in one of the armchairs and pulls a briefcase from beneath the table.

But for once Murasaki doesn't turn and leave without a word. Tanabe notices he's not moving and his hands stop, poised above the locks on the briefcase.

Murasaki stands awkwardly in the doorway. He can't summon the proper words to translate what's strangling him.

Tanabe just shoots him a casual stare. "Something bothering you?"

"That guy—the one from the café—who is he?" Murasaki blurts. Tanabe raises a brow. "The other man called him 'Nice.' Do you know anything about him?"

"Well… I know a little about him, I think, but let's make sure." So he fishes his phone from his pocket and fingers flash across the screen.

Murasaki watches him in silence.

"Just a moment," he murmurs. A minute goes by before the screen brightens again and he opens a file from a new message. His eyes quickly scan the information. "Ah, that's right. According to Facultas's records, he was a student—and a top one too… but of course these records are really out-of-date."

Murasaki huffs. "By about six years."

"Right. At the very least, his Minimum hadn't actualized yet. We'd have to get our hands on more recent information if we wanted anything official."

"What about unofficial?"

A grin pulls on Tanabe's face as he eases back into his chair. "What I can say for sure is that he's unregistered. He's not with Facultas and the Minimum Agency, and he's definitely not with The Family. Facultas has been trying to get him back for a while now, but they're obviously not having any luck. We've reached out to him many times too, with hands _and_ fists. Same for us." He shakes his head. "He's put down quite a few of our guys, honestly."

"Really?"

"Well, not permanently. Just enough for them to leave him alone. It's kind of annoying how in-between he is about everything, huh?" Tanabe chuckles. Murasaki doesn't answer. "From what we've seen, we're thinking his Minimum is all about speed. Like Mach speed. Facultas would probably name it something catchy like a 'Sonic Minimum.' He's a freelancer that gained a bit of short-lived fame on the Internet last year. One of those viral video things, I think. He hasn't meddled in ours or Facultas's affairs, as of yet, and pretty much refuses to engage anyone at all…. Oh, and he's stupidly strong."

"I saw that for myself."

"I'd never actually _seen_ him before... It was strange. Like going to the zoo and seeing some exotic animal that you've read about and seen pictures of but hadn't witnessed in person."

Murasaki raises a brow. "Are you saying Minimum Holders are like animals in a zoo?"

"Yeah, that was a pretty shitty analogy, wasn't it?" Tanabe laughs. "Why are you so interested in him, anyway? Sense a kindred spirit?"

"Not at all," he mutters. His hand unconsciously curls into a fist, and he can still feel the residual shakes. His insides have been rearranged after his raging heartbeat pushed everything out of its way. The corners of his mouth are twitching. He sets his jaw to quell them. "It was something else."

Tanabe studies him without expression. "Well. Just be careful with that one." Murasaki gives him a look. "I know you're you and all, but that guy… I don't know. He kind of comes off as a little… unstable."

xx

 **Author's Notes—** Gah, Murasaki you are so, so awkward. What. … He's still finding his stride.

So Birthday and Ratio finally have their introduction~ A fun headcanon of mine is that Ratio doesn't drink—unless he's being super cool and philosophical about it, like sipping on expensive Scotch in a leather armchair while reading _The Brothers Karamazov_. And, of course, he'll drink for business purposes.

Birthday though? He drinks recreationally.

 **He likes tequila,**

 _ **-Destiny**_


	4. Long-Exposure

**04- Long-Exposure**

Tanabe should've known that calling Nice unstable and telling him to be careful would only further pique Murasaki's interest. Although, honestly, Murasaki wouldn't be surprised if Tanabe _did_ know that, and is only prodding him forward in the name of information, or amusement, or whatever the case may be. If that's true, he's doing precisely what Tanabe wants him to do. But since it's Tanabe, Murasaki supposes he doesn't mind too much. He's actually doing this for himself, anyway.

Fingers tighten around the steering wheel of his jeep. As he places it in park he realizes how he must look. Going to such lengths to get information on some guy he watched win a street brawl… Especially since he's sitting here now, of all places. It feels like a big leap. But Murasaki shakes his head. He's simply avoiding the unnecessary. Aiming for the heart. He's already decided that getting the information he wants will require taking advantage of the Family's connections, and luckily for him they happen to have a Minimum specialist on their payroll. It's not surprising, but Murasaki still wonders how they managed to pull in a specialist that used to work for Facultas. Changing sides in Yokohama is tough and dangerous work. Only some people can get away with it.

For one reason or another, this one did. Though Murasaki has never been particularly fond of him. He always looks at Murasaki very meticulously, like he's some kind of specimen. A bad habit that followed him from Facultas, no doubt.

Murasaki turns off the jeep. No matter how much he dislikes it, the only reason wants to see this specialist at all is because of that Facultas background.

He braces himself with a deep breath.

Murasaki steps out of the vehicle before a huge, Western-style house. One could consider it a mansion. The grounds are wrapped in iron fences and speckled with large, slightly unkempt flower beds bursting with blooms of brown petals. Their shade is so dark; they look almost black. But he notes that the flowers are not unkempt in that they're uncared for. The flowers appear healthy, but they are not neat. It's as though they're blooming out of control. The glare of the overhead sun ripens their sweet, chocolatey scent. It makes Murasaki queasy.

He decides to make this quick. Really, he decided that before he even arrived. It's been a while since he was last at this mansion, and he didn't care much for the last visit either.

But Murasaki rules this as a necessity. He would not be here otherwise. So he marches past the rustling flowers to the main doors and rings the bell. More than three minutes pass before the door finally opens.

A man stands on the other side of the threshold, clearly in no hurry. He is a man with long white hair and narrow eyes that cut into Murasaki and assess his entire being in nothing short of an instant. That man laughs through his nose and skips over all formalities: "To what do I owe the unannounced visit, Murasaki-kun?"

Murasaki bows his head a bit. "Excuse me, Moral. I have something to ask of you. May I come in?"

Silence follows as Moral studies him for a moment. Eventually, he steps to the side with a face like a grimace. "I suppose."

"Thank you." Murasaki nods again and slides through the doorway.

"Since you insisted, I'll assume this might take a while. Let's have a seat, then, shall we?" And he trots off down the hall without waiting for an answer. He leads Murasaki to one of the inner rooms of the house in silence. His stride is slow down the long hallway.

Murasaki finds himself wondering what Moral does with all of these rooms at his disposal. The thought is quickly extinguished by the part of his brain that would rather not know. Just before they reach their destination, Murasaki briefly notices a reinforced door with a tall array of locks.

At last, they arrive in a spacious room. It's void of any furniture but two armchairs, a table in between, and a handful of decorative floor lamps.

"So what can I help you with?" Moral asks, sitting down in one of the chairs. "Did you come for tea, perhaps?"

"No, I did not."

"Good, because I don't have any."

Murasaki keeps his face flat and sits down as well. "I'm looking for information on someone from Facultas. The records that we have are too old to be of any use. I know that you had fairly high security clearance while you were there, so I came to ask for your assistance."

Moral's grin is slow and sharp. "Data-gathering, hm? But you know that Facultas likes to pretend that I'm dead. I may be locked out of their archives by now."

"I'm willing to take the chance."

A shrug. "If you're sure." He grabs a tablet from the table, his fingers tapping on the screen. "So, who are you looking into?"

"Nice."

Moral's gaze is suddenly firm. He examines Murasaki for another long moment. His fingers have stopped typing.

Murasaki returns his stare. "Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head and goes back to the tablet. "Nice-kun is… a special case."

"So you remember him?"

"He had an incredible talent for… everything. It was quite remarkable," he muses. "But I left before we found his Minimum, of course. I hope he's doing well for himself."

"He's currently unregistered."

"Is that so?" Moral doesn't even pretend to be interested. "You're not hoping to ensnare him, are you?"

"That's my business."

"Because if you are, I would advise against it."

That makes Murasaki pause. "And why is that?"

Moral only smiles. "Not even you, Murasaki-kun. You're no match for him."

Murasaki sets his jaw. "Everything you know is six years out-of-date."

"That's of no consequence. Consider this Professional Intuition." A sound comes from the tablet in his hands and Moral's eyebrows lift. "Ah, it appears that I can still access some of Facultas's archives, but Nice-kun is nowhere to be found."

"What?"

"It's certainly interesting—for it to be above even this security clearance." He returns the tablet to the table, ignoring the intensity of Murasaki's stare. "They must have reclassified him sometime in the past six years."

Murasaki waits for him to elaborate. He doesn't. "What does that mean?"

"Who knows?" Moral shrugs. "Of course, I have also been erased from Facultas's archives. To have our texts wiped clean—like a dressing on an unsightly wound. How alike we must be." Moral is smiling. Murasaki only finds it slightly unsettling. "What do you think, Murasaki-kun?" And his eyes are upon him. Gleaming at him. Murasaki could swear that it's a challenge. Moral tilts his head forward, refusing to be left unanswered.

That stare makes Murasaki want to shiver. "Thank you for your assistance." And he gets up and turns to leave.

Moral's grin doesn't waver. "Do be careful."

X

Art glances at his wristwatch. It's already ten-thirty. His mark is running late. He sips on the last dregs of his bubble tea and leans back against the door of his car. His eyes never leave the shiny revolving door of the luxury apartment complex just down the street. Apartments that are storeys above his pay-grade, costing well over 600,000 yen a month in rent alone.

He shakes his head and takes another thoughtful sip. No one would ever call this mark subtle— not with his flashy Italian sports jackets and ridiculous disposition.

No matter how much time passes, Art finds that many of his old classmates never change. Some remain beneath their shelter, while others change sides. But really, it's all the same.

So of course it's unsettling when something strange happens in this city. Yokohama's bad habits were beaten into it. Anything new is inviting a similar, painful drive.

Art places the now empty cup on the roof of his car. His eyes go back to his watch. No one has left the apartment complex in forty six minutes. Only five have left since he first arrived seventy one minutes ago.

He keeps watch over the entrance. A man with a briefcase scurries through Art's line of sight with his phone to his ear. Art can hear a woman's voice roaring from the tiny speaker as he passes. Through clipped words and phrases, Art sees the bumbling lawyer speaking to his angry spouse. After a moment, another man in a well-fitting suit trots by, chatting in English to a small blonde woman with her nose in a book. The only part Art can make out is the man complaining that his Japanese isn't good at all. The woman is halfway through _Catch-22_.

Art recognizes the expression. No matter what choice is made, or even if one isn't made at all, the outcome is awful. No way to win. His thoughts immediately go back to the foreboding surveillance footage on his computer. The curiously clean-cut murder of Nijima Hōtarō of Facultas. Art sighs at the ground. If he does nothing, it will only continue. However, the case is so unfamiliar. Solving it may unleash an entirely new set of issues.

Art pinches the bridge of his nose. Just thinking of it gives him a headache. Even so, his gaze goes right back to the entrance of the apartment complex.

The case leaves him with a tense knot in his stomach. Something doesn't sit right about it. Even the forever-enigmatic Facultas has agreed to the police investigation. Art knows it's only on the off-chance that the police figure anything out before they do. But once again he's thanking Facultas' predictability, because if anyone wants to know what happened to Nijima, it would be Facultas themselves. So Art makes sure that his first means of attack is through Facultas' own lens.

If he'd only leave his apartment already.

Art's watch reads 11:17 when the man finally appears. He emerges from the revolving door like a whirlwind and adjusts the sunglasses on his face. Art notes that his sports jacket is more subdued than normal, but it's still well-tailored and crisp. The shirt beneath it, however, has clearly been slept in.

But subdued or not, Art couldn't miss this mark from even a great distance. He pushes himself off of the car and steps over as soon as the man reaches the sidewalk. He's upon him before his eyes can adjust to the sunlight through his glasses. "Birthday," he calls, "Do you have a moment to talk?"

There's only an instant of hesitation. "For you, Inspector," he shrugs, "sure, why not?"

Art goes straight to the point. He's wasted enough of his morning waiting around. "Last night you were seen leaving Twist. That peculiar restaurant…" Birthday nods. He doesn't deny it. "That's not your territory. So why were you there?"

A thin smile slowly peels back Birthday's lips. "With the cute wait staff and strong drinks… who can say no?"

"You know as well as I do that you were there on business."

His smile doesn't waver at all, but Art watches his hands slip defensively into his pockets. "I was having a drink with an old friend of mine. You know, the guy that runs around in a lab coat even though he doesn't have a medical license."

Art nods. "I am aware of him, along with actual nature of your relationship." He tries on Birthday's grin. "You're not exactly Ratio's favourite person."

His laugh is breathless. "And he's certainly not mine. But I just can't leave him alone. He's so lost. It's so easy."

"How did you manage to run into him?"

Birthday clicks his tongue. "Ah, Inspector, it's a long story."

"Mind telling it to me?"

That grin again. "I would—but you only asked for a moment."

Art discards the urge to grumble beneath his breath. New tactic. "This case puts us on the same side, you know."

"Don't even pretend that that's true," Birthday scoffs. "There's nothing in this world that could put us on the same side."

"Even so, we're looking for the same answers."

"Then we're merely aiming for the same target. It doesn't change anything." His serious tone betrays the look on his face. Art notices his hands clenching within his jacket pockets. "Now, I'll do my job and you'll do yours."

"If you have the same suspicions I do, then I'd much rather do my job before you have the chance to do yours."

Birthday's eyes search over Art's face. A puff of air escapes his chest. "Look—since it's you, I'll tell you this: It was a typical night at Twist. Nothing special."

Art's lips form a straight line. 'A typical night.' No special revelry. Nothing out of place. "Is that so?"

"In my opinion, yes. That's what I saw."

"I see. That's interesting."

Birthday waves the statement away. "Not really. I didn't expect anything else, to be honest." Then his eyes are upon Art, gleaming at him from over his sunglasses. "And judging from the look on your face, neither did you." Art's jaw locks into place. Birthday laughs. "Looks like neither of us expected it to be that easy."

That settles Art's suspicions. The Family isn't involved. They didn't take Nijima down. Even Facultas knows it.

But in this instance, Art thinks that he wouldn't mind being wrong. This case has suddenly become much more open. Much harder to contain. It reaches outside of Yokohama's usual bounds. Anxiousness creeps over his shoulders. "Something's happening."

Birthday shrugs. "Yokohama is a dynamic place. Maybe it's changing."

"And what do you think about it?"

"Professionally speaking?"

Art shakes his head. "Personally."

"Personally," he lets out a slow breath, "it's worrisome. But I'm not trying to put my résumé in order just yet." Art studies his face. He isn't lying. "You've seen it yourself—it takes something incredible to shake Yokohama."

Art's eyebrows involuntarily lift. "'Incredible'?"

Birthday sees his hardened stare and leans back a bit. "Personally speaking."

He realizes that he has no idea what kind of expression he's making and pulls a hand down his face. "We agree on one thing, at least." Birthday tilts his head. "It is worrisome."

Birthday's grin returns. "It's kind of refreshing."

Art isn't entirely sure what he means.

X

Both of his arms are asleep. The kind of asleep that comes with stabbing, hollow aches through every muscle. He doesn't know whether to move them or keep them still.

He's being pressed against something rough and uncomfortable. There's a throbbing in the back of his head like a drum. His legs tighten painfully. He's curled into a ball. Where _are_ his arms, anyway? He can't feel anything but the pains in his shoulders that dissolve into static. There's vibration—a rumbling against his face. The rough carpet scratches at his cheek. It smells of gasoline.

It's the smell that knocks him back to his senses. Shinya's eyes pop wide open to greet the reddish darkness surrounding him. He should've known. It's the trunk of a car.

What happened? His quick heartbeat pounds the drum on the back of his head. The car hits a bump and he jostles around, pulling a breath through clenched teeth.

All he can remember is the pretty girl from the convenience store. Her desperate face… the locked door… and then a flash of pain that blots out the world. It was right after he unlocked the door…

Wait. He remembers hearing the door open behind him. If there was someone already inside… Then why…?

His head hurts. He can't even see straight, let alone think. He stretches his legs out the best he can by kicking at the wall of the trunk. A bolt of pain travels up his body and into his tingling arms and he swears loudly. He finally locates his arms through the pain. They're bound behind his back. It takes all of his concentration to focus through the static and pull at his wrists. There's the sound of metal clinking together. Like handcuffs, maybe.

Shinya smiles. That's perfect.

He can't feel his hands, though, so it'll take a lot of effort. Just positioning a hand over one of the locks brings beads of sweat to his forehead.

But he has to do it. He doesn't know what's going on. He doesn't know why this is happening. He just knows that he doesn't want it to happen, and that's enough.

"O-open…" And the shackle on his left hand clicks open.

He releases a huge breath, carefully pulling his arms to their normal positions. His muscles tangle in protest as blood returns at last. He places a hand over the second lock and commands it open as well.

It takes a few minutes for the feeling to fully return to his fingers. He flexes his hands as the pins and needles stab deep into his flesh. It isn't much longer until the car slows to a stop and Shinya's heart flies into a frenzy.

No. He isn't ready. He hasn't had time to think of a plan. What kind of situation is he even in, anyway? What's going on? What should he do? The doors are opening. Someone is stepping out. He hears the jingle of keys. What do they want with him? He's no one special. Honestly. They're right outside. Adrenaline screams through his veins. He can't think anymore. There's no time. There's no _time_.

His hands turn to fists. What else can he do?

The trunk unlatches. As soon as he hears it, he shoves the lid open and pounces at the man standing on the other side. They both collide and go crashing to the ground. Shinya bats wildly at the man's face. It suddenly occurs to him that he doesn't know how to fight. But that doesn't matter now. He has to do it.

The man struggles to grab ahold of Shinya's flailing wrists. They're both shouting indistinctly at one another, and the moment Shinya thinks he has the upper hand is when a heavy boot comes crashing into his face and his vision goes bright white. The world tilts. His cheek hits the pavement. Two voices are swearing at him from above.

"Why the hell was he not tied up?"

"He was handcuffed!"

The sound of a punch. "You saw his Minimum, didn't you, you fuckwit!? Use the cable ties!"

The second voice grumbles in response.

Shinya's arms are pulled behind him again. Ghostly aches flare up to his shoulders as his wrists are held together. Plastic straps zip tight and he can't move.

"Now let's go. Come on."

He's hoisted up into an uncomfortable fireman's carry. Everything is still spinning. He can feel the bruise blossoming beneath his right eye, where the toe of a boot knocked him down. He still doesn't know what's going on, or what he's done to get himself in this mess; but he definitely doesn't know anything about this 'Minimum' thing, or whatever it is, or what's going to happen now.

A horrible feeling of nausea overcomes all of his senses. A weight like dread. He begins to struggle against the man's grip and is only awarded with another blow to the head and all of the light in the world is entirely snuffed out.

xx

 **Author's Notes-** So. Well, okay, this update took so long mostly because my life suddenly decided to get in the way and make mean faces at me. Things happen, you know. But I'm alive! And hm… I've only written Moral in passing before… but now he's actually somewhat important. This should be fun. Also, the first two scenes bother me because reasons and at this point I'm sure those reasons are only so obvious to me so I gave up on trying to fix them.

The Family's restaurant is named Twist mostly because I like to imagine the Japanese voice actors pronouncing it. No, really; I can be serious, I promise.

 **So cereal,**

 _ **-Destiny**_


	5. Origin

**05- Origin**

"Hajime-chan!" Koneko sings from her spot behind the counter. "Do you have any plans for today?"

Hajime sinks into the barstool, swinging her legs and speaking with a mouth full of pudding: "No."

"Then, would you like to accompany me on an errand?"

"No."

And Koneko instantly slumps. Master doesn't know whether he should laugh or sigh. "But Hajime-chan…!" she whines. "There's a new Limited Edition volume of _Akiba Blue_ that I have to buy and I don't want to go alone!"

Hajime points her spoon at Nice—sitting a few seats down in his usual spot at the Café. "Take him instead."

Nice laughs into his near-empty glass.

"Not me."

"But why?"

"Because I don't want to." She takes another spoonful of pudding and leaves it at that.

Koneko purses her lips. There's a fierce gleam in her eyes. She won't give up so easily.

Master sighs. He stops Koneko just as she's opened her mouth to retaliate: "Koneko," he presses, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Huh?"

"I have a meeting with a vendor today, remember? There has to be someone here to watch over the shop while I'm tied up."

She stares at him for the longest time as a look of depressed horror slowly overcomes her face. She eventually sets her chin on the countertop in defeat. "Oh. Right… I guess I won't get the Limited Edition after all. Unless…" her eyes slide eagerly over to Hajime, "… someone goes to get it for me?"

Hajime doesn't hesitate: "No."

"You're cruel to me, Hajime-chan!"

This time Master decides to laugh.

Nice tilts his glass up without a word, crunching on a stray piece of ice that slipped into his mouth with the last of his drink.

"Please, Hajime-chan!" Koneko begs, "I'll do anything! I'll make your favourite dessert for an entire week!"

The spoon in Hajime's hand wavers. "… two."

"Eh?"

"Two weeks."

Koneko doesn't even think about it. She's already nodding her head frantically. "Yes! Okay! Thank you, Hajime-chan!" If the counter wasn't separating them, she'd surely have pulled Hajime into her arms.

Master shakes his head. Hajime must be in a good mood. He honestly didn't expect her to agree to anything. She doesn't run errands on behalf of other people. In fact, she doesn't run errands at all. How often does she venture out on her own? Has she ever? He suddenly doesn't think so.

Koneko is handing Hajime the money when Nice returns his glass to the counter and stands from his seat. He raises a hand above his head. "I'm off."

The idea flies from Master's mouth the instant it appears in is head. "Wait, Nice, why don't you go with her?" He suggests.

Nice stops in his tracks. He and Hajime speak at the same time: "Huh?"

"Hajime's never run errands on her own. I would prefer if someone went along with her."

Nice barely stifles the urge to click his tongue.

Master watches him have a silent argument with himself. He knows Nice doesn't necessarily consider it a hassle, but that doesn't mean he wants to do it.

Hajime is glaring at her half-eaten bowl of pudding. But she doesn't argue. Master doesn't leave her any room for such a thing.

Nice eventually sighs. "Fine." He plops back into his chair. "Only because it won't take long."

Master grins at his excuse. "Thank you." His eyes move over to Hajime as she sits simmering in her seat. She takes another unhappy bite of pudding and refuses to meet his stare.

Nice drums his fingers on the counter as he waits for her to finish.

Master is sure she's purposely taking her time. The minutes tick by spoonful by spoonful. Each one is Hajime lashing out in protest. She thinks that maybe, if she takes long enough, Nice will give up and go on. Unluckily for her, Nice is either too lazy or too stubborn to change his mind a second time. Maybe it's both.

At last, the spoon clinks into the empty bowl. "Thanks for the food," she murmurs. Her protest didn't work at all.

Nice is already on his feet. "Okay, let's go."

Hajime reluctantly stands and follows him towards the door. Master watches the pair awkwardly shuffle away into the sunlight. The door shuts, separating the inside from all intruding light. He's suddenly aware of how dark it is in the café. His usual, sunny view of the sidewalk is blocked by sheets of plywood where window panes should be.

Koneko retreats into the back of the café as they leave. It'll be her last break before Master's meeting with the vendor. He takes Nice's empty glass and Hajime's bowl and puts them behind the counter before wiping down the bar with a damp cloth.

Maybe sending them off together will finally incur some changes. He hopes so.

The image of Nice and Hajime leaving the café is still in his mind when his washcloth catches on a snag in the countertop and he pauses.

Master supposes it's been over a year now. He still thinks about that day from time to time.

It wasn't a special afternoon at first, but he remembers the moment before very clearly: He's taking a polishing cloth over a piece of stemware as Hajime sits at the counter eating some kind of steak with a knife and fork. When the boy stalks into the café, Master immediately notices his suspicious expression.

It takes a moment for Master to recognize him, but he does. A boy from Facultas. The last time he saw him there was only one bandage across the bridge of his nose. He's grown older, and now each cheek has a stripe of bandage as well. But that's all Master can recall of him—his face and nothing more. "Welcome. What can I get for you?"

The boy glances narrowly at Hajime, but when his eyes land on Master his suspicion explodes into what looks like hope. "You… you're from Facultas."

Master's hands suddenly stop their polishing.

"You're the guy in the lab coat I saw that night."

"I'm sorry. You must have me mistaken with someone else."

He's shaking his head. "There's no way I'm mistaken. You were there. I saw you." He comes up to the counter, licking his lips excitedly. "So you should know about what happened five years ago."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." Master deflects again, but the boy isn't having any of it.

"You're lying."

"I'm telling you that you're mistaken."

"I need to know what happened."

"I don't know anything about that place or whatever happened five years ago."

"Don't give me that crap!" He shouts, slamming his hands onto the countertop. Master instinctively leans back from the boy's snarling face. " _Don't_ test me. I'm not mistaken and I am _anything_ but stupid. I'm telling you: _I know_. I know you were there that night and I _know_ you were a faculty member or at least some researcher because you were wearing that coat. The only people that wear white coats in Facultas are people _in the know_. So don't lie to me. Don't you fucking lie to me. I _need_ to know what really happened that night. Facultas likes to pretend that nothing happened—that it was just a freak accident with no casualties but _I was there and I know that's not fucking true but I can't seem to find anyone willing to TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED—_ " A knife is suddenly lodged into the counter between him and Master, shutting him down. Its blade is buried deep into the polished wood surface. The boy wasn't even paying enough attention to notice that Hajime had stopped eating and thrown it at him.

Her stare is white-hot. His mouth clicks shut.

" _He said he doesn't know_."

The boy's face falls. A look of recognition. Her defensive stare is familiar. "Alright," he says. "Okay. So you don't know." And he slumps onto one of the barstools like cloth falling from a hanger. Hajime continues eating as if nothing happened.

Master's expression softens. "I wish I could help you."

A harsh laugh comes from the boy as he puts his face in his hands.

"I really do. But I'm afraid I'm just as clueless as to what really happened that night. And unlike you, I never searched for an answer. There are some things in this world that are better off not known. I'd prefer to leave all of that behind me."

"Well, I can't do that," he mutters, lifting his head and staring into the distance. "Not when that's all that's in front of me."

Master studies him for a moment. "Sometimes we lose things and we can never get them back." The boy grimaces. "No matter how hard we struggle."

His gaze falls to the counter, where Hajime's knife is still stuck firmly in place. "I'm not struggling nearly enough to believe in those words."

"Are you certain?"

"I am." He stands and moves to leave. "Besides, I'm fine with struggling."

Master watches him go. His shoulders are heavy as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Wait," Master calls. The boy looks over with tired eyes. "What's your name?"

"… Nice."

Master smiles. He can see Hajime silently giving him a sidelong glance from her seat. "Make sure you try the House Blend the next time you're in." Nice narrows his eyes. Master reaches over and pulls the knife free from the counter. His hand gestures toward the gouge that's left behind. "After all, I already have a seat marked for you, Nice-kun."

Nice makes a sound like a laugh. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

Master can't tell if he means it or not.

But in the year or so since, it appears that he did.

Master makes it a point to not fix the mark in the countertop. He supposes it holds some kind of meaning. Every so often he'll catch Nice with his head down, watching the condensation drip down his glass, his fingers absentmindedly passing over the cut in the wood. Reminding himself that it's still there, perhaps.

Master brings his own hand over the mark. It's become a part of Café Nowhere. It's something that can't be erased.

When the door of the café opens he half expects it to be Nice, but instead it's a man Master is sure he's seen before. He has spiked hair and a stern expression behind his red-framed glasses. His long red coat is new or hardly worn.

Master can't place him, so he greets him as a customer. "Welcome. What can I get for you?"

The man wastes no time. "I'm looking for Nice. Is he here?"

Master realizes that he must be a customer for Hamatora instead. "He isn't, but he should be back soon. If you come back in an hour or so, you might—"

"That's alright," he says, and sits at the spot at the counter directly in front of the mark. "I can wait."

"Can I get you anything?"

Again, there's no hesitation. "I'll have the House Blend. I hear it's excellent."

X

Hajime lifts her nose into the air. "I smell… pork. And cilantro." And she breaks off, veering down the sidewalk with no other warning.

Nice has to scramble after her. "Whoa! Wait a minute!"

She doesn't answer and keeps walking. She's remarkably fast on her short legs.

Nice assumes it's because food is involved, but he can't smell anything out of the ordinary.

They've walked over a block when Hajime suddenly turns in an alley and stops short. Nice almost runs into her. She points to a man in Chinese robes sitting on a crate. He has a pot of boiling water and steaming basket of something set up between his legs.

Nice finally notices the sharp smell of cilantro.

"He's the one. The pork and cilantro man."

The man smiles behind his tiny sunglasses. "Impressive. I can appreciate the cuteness of a girl with a healthy appetite." And he reaches carefully into the basket and hands her a steaming dumpling wrapped in paper. She accepts it with stars in her eyes. He's not as impressed with Nice and gives him a flat stare without so much as a word.

Nice returns his stare. "You're Mao, aren't you?"

He just smiles. "Information is a valuable resource, young man. In my line of work you learn to not take it lightly."

"That's a typical answer. I hear your business _is_ information."

"So you realize why I can't provide answers so easily."

"Then let's talk business. There's something I need to know. What are your rates?"

"I'm afraid I don't have any. Most information isn't valuable to me. On a personal level."

Nice smirks, "'What's it worth to you?', huh?"

"You're quick on the uptake."

"I need to know the details behind the incident at Facultas six years ago."

Mao's face suddenly falls. He fiddles with a batch of dumplings in the basket at his feet. Nice can feel Hajime's stare boring into the side of his face. "That… is far above your pay grade, I'm afraid, Mr. Broke Detective."

"I can pay 5 million yen."

Mao freezes for a moment. "Even then," he forces.

Nice recoils at bit. "Are you _kidding_?"

"Depending on who you ask, nothing happened at all. Isn't that so?" Mao keeps his voice low. Nice can't contradict him. "Besides, if I know anything, it has cost me dearly enough already."

Nice buries his hands in his pockets and matches Mao's pitch. "Is that why you've been hiding in Ikebukuro for the past few years?"

Mao's grin is bitter. "Information is not to be taken lightly, Detective. Some things in this world are better off not known."

"Like I haven't heard that one before," he grumbles.

A breath. "Incidents had been piling up for a while, and they like to change face." He looks up to the sliver of sky visible from the shadows of the alleyway. "The atmosphere lately has been much the same as it was then. I wouldn't be surprised if faces began to change again as well."

"I see."

"I would be less surprised if a similar incident were to occur."

"The one that didn't happen?"

"Imaginary things tend to be the most explosive, after all." They assess each other in silence as Hajime takes her last bite of dumpling and crumples the paper wrapper into a ball. Mao doesn't take is eyes off of Nice and holds out his hand. "That'll be 2000 for the dumpling."

Nice chuckles as he reaches for his wallet. "Is that an upcharge?"

"It was filled with premium ingredients."

X

Art parks his car before the plywood-covered windows of Café Nowhere around midday. He takes a quick glance at his watch. It didn't take long to get here. There's still plenty of time left of his lunchbreak. He doesn't typically leave the office for his breaks—in fact, he works through lunch more often than he'd like to admit—and although he's dealing with a friend, this is still technically business.

He's crossing to the entrance when Nice briskly turns the corner of the block. Hajime ambles not-too-far behind. Art's eyebrows lift. That's a rare coupling. It's obvious how uncomfortable they are. Art can see it even without Hajime's tense expression or Nice's hands stuffed deep into his pockets. As Art recalls, Nice doesn't speak much of Hajime, and when he does it's without feeling. She's in the background of his world—neither a positive nor negative existence. Meanwhile, Hajime seems to make it a point to avoid Nice altogether.

She's walking with a plastic shopping bag held against her chest. She keeps the distance between them as large as the sidewalk will allow.

Nice's face brightens as soon as he spots Art. He lifts a hand to greet him. "Yo."

Hajime doesn't pay Art any mind. She gives him a quick, wordless bow before disappearing into the café.

Art shrugs it off. He doesn't ask what's going on. Nice doesn't seem bothered enough for it to be anything important, anyway. "Perfect timing. I came here to discuss your case. Do you have a minute?"

"Of course," Nice eases back onto his heels. "I was going to drop by your office later to check on it anyway."

"And unannounced, as always," Art chuckles. "I anticipated that."

Nice just grins.

He suggests pairing their conversation with lunch and retreats toward his car. Nice is not one to turn down such an offer, and quickly agrees. A short drive and several minutes later they're sitting beneath the awning of Art's favourite café with tea and sweet pastries. A warm, pleasant breeze flows freely across the open patio, pulling steam from the rim of Art's cup of black tea.

Nice fiddles with the straw in his own drink, cold as always, and studies the platter of sweets. "So, Inspector, you wanted to talk about the case, right? Is the investigation still ongoing?" he asks, reaching for his chosen pastry and taking a bite. "It must be bad news since we're having lunch like this."

Art nods. "I suppose it is. The case is still open, but if it continues to stagnate here we may have to cut our losses and move on."

"Oh?"

"Unsurprisingly, we were unable to get any information out of the four that assaulted you and destroyed the café windows." Art's tone is all-business as he reaches for the bowl of sugar cubes. "They have no connections to anyone in this area. It's rather peculiar. Only one is a graduate of Facultas, but he hasn't been involved in anything noteworthy until this incident. Not to mention that his Minimum is non-combative and couldn't be the cause of the shattered windows."

"So the other three are unregistered and refusing to talk."

"That appears to be the case, yes. And unfortunately, we don't have the time to push for what little information they may or may not have."

Nice just shrugs and twirls his straw between two fingers. His pastry is already gone. "I expected as much," he mutters. "But I'm not too worried about it. And you shouldn't be either." A smirk. "You have your own dead ends to fret over, right?"

Art's smile stumbles softly across his face. "Is it so obvious?"

Nice laughs beneath his breath. "I know you well enough to see it."

"Is that so?"

"But it seems pretty bad this time. Is it really something so serious?"

Art hears the faint concern hiding beneath Nice's words. He starts adding sugar cubes to his cup of tea. "Maybe. But it's just as well," and he sighs, giving in, "one of the higher-ups from Facultas was taken down. It was in an uncharacteristically clean fashion and there's very little to work with. Even less than usual."

"One of the higher-ups?" Nice echoes. "And Facultas agreed to the police investigation?"

"Curiously enough, yes. Dr. Nijima was taken down very quietly, and the lack of spectacle seems to bother Facultas as well."

"Nijima, huh? Never heard of him."

"Same," he agrees. "But despite their cooperation, Facultas remains as unsupportive as always. The only information we've received from them is just empty words. Dr. Nijima was the Consultant for This, or the Head of Administration for That," Art grumbles. "A lot of air that sounds important but doesn't actually _mean_ anything."

Nice is smirking. "So, in the end, there's no telling what he _actually_ did for Facultas, right?"

"Which means he must have been fairly high in their ranks," Art sighs. "Even his official title is above regular security clearance."

Nice takes a thoughtful sip of his drink. "It would have to be something integral to Facultas's regular operations, in that case. What happened at Facultas through the days after the murder?"

"I wondered the same, and I've already looked into it." Art drops one more cube of sugar into his cup, for good measure. "Nothing obvious changed through the following days. Nothing stopped, and nothing started. But you know Facultas—the ugly core is always shrouded in unnecessary procedure."

Nice sneers. "Those guys… If whatever they were doing was disguised as something menial, it would be no trouble to turn it into actual mundanities."

"Whatever Nijima's role was, it may hold the key to figuring out the _who_ and _why_." He takes a slow sip of his tea, sweetened to taste.

Nice retreats into his thoughts. He follows Art's example and takes a few hearty gulps of his drink. He returns the glass to its place with a different look in his eyes. A moment passes with Nice staring into the distance. "We have an encroaching organization on our hands." He drops the words onto the table as if they were discussing the weather.

Art keeps his expression under control. His grin turns taut as he looks at Nice. "Oh?"

A flicked finger taps on the half-empty glass. "The Family clearly isn't involved. You said it yourself: They would make a spectacle of it. In the first place, they wouldn't strike without proper cause—and that would be hidden within the spectacle. A subtle parade to honour the disposal of Nijima-sensei: Chief of Staff of the Horribleness Department or whatever purpose he might have served. They would make it clear. Even if it was a rogue acting on their own—the modus operandi wouldn't change." He leans back in his chair. He doesn't see the tense look on Art's face. "Denouncing Facultas would be the only benefit from Nijima's murder, so why is that glossed over?" He shakes his head. "And considering how Facultas is at least half-way working with the police, it can't be an inside job through them either. They would've done away with him quietly anyway. Written him out as if he'd never existed at all."

Art calmly sets his cup back into its saucer. "Years ago, the smaller clans in this area were pushed out by Facultas and the Family... This could be the inciting incident of a new turf war by an old clan."

But Nice shakes his head again. "No, I don't think so." Art feels a knot form in his chest. "Nothing's changed outside of Yokohama. At least, I haven't heard of any increase or decrease in activity for the surrounding areas, have you?"

"No," he admits. "The surrounding areas are no more restless than usual. They're carefully handling their peace like a thin sheet of glass."

"Even prisons have courtyards," he mutters. "And if a group is coming from nearby, there're usually some signs of destabilization… Besides, whoever's responsible would want their name painted all over it so they can keep the credit." His expression turns firm. "This is something completely foreign. They don't want credit—they want destruction."

"To destroy Facultas? Not even the Family is so bold to attempt that."

"Only because they need Facultas in order to exist at all," he scoffs. A strange grin comes over his face. "But I can't say I blame anyone for wanting to destroy that place."

Art watches him without judgment. "Nice… have you ever wanted to destroy Facultas?"

Nice isn't paying attention. He's staring off at the fluttering fringe of the café's overhead awning. He says nothing. There's no indication that he heard Art's question at all.

Well. It doesn't matter. It isn't a question Art would consider repeating.

"It's necessary," Nice sighs.

"Hm?"

"As much as I hate to say it, they're irreplaceable to a lot of people. If Facultas was ripped out by the roots, there'd be no Yokohama left. Only debris. And until those roots have withered away, whatever misgivings I have about Facultas are lost to the breeze." He slowly gets to his feet, as if to drop those words like grenades. His hand finds the back of the chair and tightens around it. "But still… I won't let them have their way." Then his serious expression suddenly melts away. "Thanks for the snacks. I'll see you around."

It takes a second for Art to adjust to the change. "Where are you going?"

"Our conversation helped me realize something. There are a few things I have to take care of. See ya."

And in another moment he's gone. But Art remains in his seat. He's stuck on Nice's choice of words. "'Helped,' huh?" He bars the harsh laugh that threatens to spill out. It catches painfully in his throat. He takes the rest of his tea to drown it, but not even five cubes of sugar are enough to mask the bitterness.

xx

 **Author's Notes-** Finally, most of the threads have been set! Mostly. Forever building… At any rate, this was a very Nice chapter. (Hahaaaah, I regret nothing.) I was about 80-percent finished with it by the time I noticed that this is Hajime's introductory chapter. I'm oh- _so_ observant, I know. Well. I guess it worked out okay. Not including the weird transitions… and the part that I gave up on trying to fix but if I ever do a final edit it will most likely be totally reworked or cut entirely but hey let's not worry about that.

Having a flashback in present tense feels… strange. It was certainly strange to write. But worth it. I think. I hope. Probably.

 **I'm happy with it, anyway,**

 ** _-Destiny_**


End file.
